Ache
by unit76
Summary: Set during episode 3x22, Resignation.  House and Wilson can't seem to have a serious discussion without arguing, and some discussions need to be had. Currently friendship/preslash.  May turn into slash.  Please CC.
1. Chapter 1

Wilson wakes up with a killer headache and a stiff neck, and a feeling that the sun is shining a little too brightly on him. He knows where he is before he opens his eyes - the feeling of his office couch's cushions pressing against his back is not the most comfortable, but over the years it has grown almost familiar. Though most of the times he had spent the night on his couch were due to marital problems, not because he was suffering the effects of drinking amphetamine laced coffee and then popping a Vicodin later that day. He can feel a faint surge of annoyance flair up within him and tries to quell it down - he doesn't even have the right to be angry about this since he was the one that started it to begin with.

"We were made for each other," he sighs to his reflection as he straightens his tie in the bathroom of PPTH. Who the hell else drugs their best friend? Who the hell else stays best friends with a person who drugs them? He rubs at the base of his neck, partially to alleviate the stiffness and partially because that is where he holds most of his tension and it's pretty much reflexive at this point, especially when he's thinking about House and all the stress he causes.

"You slept in your office," Cuddy observes when she sees him walking back to his office.

"How did you..."

"You're wearing the same shirt and tie as yesterday," she notes. He hadn't had time to head home to change. "You never do that. Is everything okay? I didn't even know you were seeing someone."

"I'm not," he waves it off.

"You sure, Wilson?" she asks. "We, ah, had a patient complaint against you from the clinic the other day. The patient said that you acted oddly during the entire exam, winked at her while you examined her breasts, freaked out about something, ran out of the room, and left her there. That's not your MO. I asked for a description of the doctor because I figured it was House because - let's face it, that is his MO - but she described you in pretty accurate detail so you can't blame it on him."

"Oh, ah, yeah. That," Wilson stalls, weighing the options. He could tell her the truth - that House had spiked his coffee with amphetamines and thus was actually completely to blame. But she would want to know why; they both know that as crazy as some of House's moves look, he always does things for a reason. And, well, he still wasn't really comfortable discussing his own vulnerabilities with another person. He hadn't even wanted to spill to House, but the cat was out of the bag on that one.

"Yes. That," she confirms.

"I'm not seeing anyone anymore. But I was," he says quickly. "We broke up yesterday. I was upset during the exam and I let that interfere with my ability to act as a professional. I'm sorry. I didn't want to be sitting home alone last night so I came in to work on billing, and I lost track of time and fell asleep."

Another lie. It came to him so easily nowadays. Lying, breaking into people's homes, drugging his best friend. Writing an extra scrip for House here or there was one thing - he had rationalized that away long ago, first with the fact that narcotics were everywhere and House would get them whether he was involved or not and the pharmacy was better than the street-corner. Then, post-infarction it was even easier - House was a friend, he was in pain, and he was helping to take the pain away. However, it's moved even past that. And it kills him because he never used to be like this – he'd ruined marriages by telling the truth for God's sake. Now he lies to cops.

He's kind of anticipating House's morning drop-in; House helps Wilson reason things out just the same as Wilson helps House - sometimes just having a sounding board to bounce things off of helps - and these thoughts are things he needs to bounce off someone. Of course, because he wants House to drop by, House doesn't. Walks right past his door. He figures House must still be angry about the whole dosing thing. God knows why - House doesn't exactly treat his body like a temple to begin with.

His morning goes poorly enough that by the time lunch comes around he's moved beyond wanting to see House to needing to see him. He's found the best way to clear his head is to itemize his issues and tackle the most pressing ones first. And, well, getting House back on his good side will help him with the rest of the crap he has to slog through.

And maybe he owes House this.

House doesn't show up in line at the cafeteria behind him to beg for some food, and isn't waiting in his office when he gets back. That doesn't mean that Wilson doesn't know where to find him. He opens the door to the coma patient's room, drops his lunch in House's lap, and pretends to be really interested in the floor.

"July 12th, 2000," he begins, quietly at first, but his voice gains strength with each word and is back to normal quickly "Patient presented with depressed mood, markedly diminished interest in daily activities, insomnia, feelings of worthlessness and inappropriate guilt, and diminished cognitive function. Diagnosed with major depressive episode. Started on 20mg Paroxetine. Diagnosis later upgraded to chronic major depressive disorder. Medication dosage changed multiple times in the interim. Most recently May 30th, 2007, to 60mg Duloxetine delayed release."

He can feel House's eyes upon him, but doesn't look up.

"Happy?" he asks, feeling a bit resigned at giving up this last bit of privacy. "I'm just as screwed up as you are."

"No," the sharpness in House's voice isn't something he's used to hearing directed at him.

"Why not?" Wilson questions, though - he thinks - the real question is more along the lines of 'why can't you let anything be easy?' or, 'why do we have to do this today?' He really is bewildered at this point. "You win. You caught me yawning. You put the pieces together and solved your little mystery. You get the satisfaction of knowing that I'm just as messed up as everyone else in the world, and some nice juicy private information to hold over my head when you need it. What more could you possibly want?"

"For you to have told me seven years ago," House snaps.

"You were having a hard time yourself," explains Wilson. "Your leg. Stacy. Why should I have piled my problems on you on top of that?"

"Because I trusted you." House begins to pick himself up in order to leave the room and end the conversation. Wilson weighs the phrase in his head. Trust-ed. Past-tense. He's pretty sure nobody that really knows him trusts him anymore. Not any of his ex-wives. Not Cuddy. Not even House, now. Sure, his patients and their families do. So do girls waiting in line in the supermarket. But he's not Wilson to them. He's that kind oncologist with the brown eyes and the nice smile. Or James.

"You dosed my coffee with amphetamines." It's a last, desperate grab, ignoring the fact that he had been dosing House first. He's not sure how House has spun him back into the bad-guy role again, but that's where he is.

"I was worried." It's an uncharacteristic confession from House, and it softens Wilson's mood a little bit.

"You could have talked to me," he says. It's not really true, but he knows what to say in these kinds of situations.

Of course House calls him out on it. "Like you would have mentioned it. Like I said, you would think it would come up in conversation sometime over the course of seven years. I asked about the yawning. How the hell else am I supposed to talk to you? Do I need a secret decoder ring or something?"

"I'm talking now," Wilson points out.

"No psychotic features?" House asks, and Wilson knows that he is thinking of Danny, racking his brain to try and retroactively diagnose and treat his issues all at once.

"None," Wilson is happy to confirm.

"Suicidal ideations?"

"None." He knows this is the closest House will come to admitting that he actually cares.

He can also tell by the deep inhale and the instinctive hand towards the pocket for Vicodin that this next question is a big one for House. Of course, even without those tells, he would have known when he heard the words come out of House's mouth. "How could I not have noticed?"

Again, Wilson knows the right thing to say. He's practiced at mitigating guilt - he deals with it often with his patients and their families. "You were in pain, House. You had enough on your plate without worrying about me."

"I'm not talking about worrying, I'm talking about noticing. I'm not worried now. You're a big boy. You can take care of yourself. I'm around to tuck you in and make sure you're not crying into your pillow every night," House says. "I didn't _notice_."

"Nice, real nice," Wilson rolls his eyes. "How is this even _about _you?"

"The same way you've made every thing that has happened in my life in the last decade about you." The click of the door punctuates House's exit.


	2. Chapter 2

"When you said that I make everything in your life about me - what did you mean by that?" The comment had been weighing on Wilson's mind the past couple days, but only now did it feel right to address. In House's apartment, after hours, watching the rodeo on tv – it was safe. Well, as safe as you can get when you base a large part of your self image on what Greg House has to say about you and your motivations.

"I meant that you make everything that happens, in my life, about you," House mimics back. Then he grabs some popcorn from the bowl in Wilson's lap and tosses it into his mouth. Wilson could have expected that one – it was classic House. It only takes one look from Wilson - one he'd long since perfected and that he's found works just as well on House as it did Sam or Bonnie or Julie - to get past that defense.

He's not really sure why he's having this conversation, anyway. House's "insights" into his character aren't often really that enlightening, and are often hurtful for the sake of being hurtful. However, he figures getting it over with is better than letting the maybes and probablys eat at him for any longer. Maybe. Unfortunately, the logical choice – the "forget about what he said and what he thinks" choice – is not one that is on the table.

House must sense that he hasn't been having a great run of it, because he tries to warn him off of the conversation. "Jimmy."

"You already said the hurtful thing, House," he says, "Now I'm looking for the helpful thing. I know that's against your general nature, but throw me a bone here." It's designed to crack House, and it does. Sort of.

"Oh, come off it Wilson," House snaps. "Everybody knows you like playing the martyr."

"Obviously I don't know," Wilson replies. "Enlighten me."

House pulls the bottle out of his pocket, and Wilson's stomach tightens. He closes his eyes as House swallows - he can't tell how many. Four? Five? More?

"Consider yourself enlightened."

"Because I don't want to watch you killing yourself, _I'm _the bad guy?" He laughs the high pitched, tension-ridden laugh that only comes when he feels House is being particularly ridiculous.

"Why do you care?" House demands. "My body, my pills."

"Your pills that you get from prescriptions that come from my prescription pad," Wilson points out. "Whether I write them, or not." He pinches the bridge of his nose, remembering that whole ordeal.

"Forget the pills. My body," reiterates House. "If the pills kill me, so what? I'm okay with it. Why aren't you?"

"I'm yawning excessively because I have a heart problem. I die. I'm okay with it. Why aren't you?" Wilson mirrors back. Because he knows the yelling isn't helping anything, he decides to state what his point is. "You're my friend, and I worry about you."

"Yeah, you love worrying," House insists. "Sitting around and looking tragic at my bedside. Ruining your marriage because you're just such a good friend and you have to help Greg in his time of need and that's why you can't be home for dinner. You worry about me more than my mother. In fact, you act like you're my mother - making sure I wear my labcoat and don't take too many of my pretty little pills."

There is something else he wants to say at the tip of his tongue, but at the mention of the pills he can't help himself. "How many did you take just now, anyway?" He knows that this is the wrong response, but it's the natural one for him. "I don't need to know exactly how many, just give me a ballpark. You're gonna be feeling good? Feeling great? Hallucinating? Stomach pump?" He locks eyes with House. "I don't love worrying," he protests. "I hate worrying. If I could be half as confident in my decisions as you are in yours my life would be a lot easier. But I have to worry. It's who I am. You're miserable. I'm a worrier." He narrows his eyes, "But I don't make you miserable on purpose. You make me worry on purpose." It's something that had been kicking around the back of his mind for awhile - information that he doesn't yet know quite what to do with.

"And we're back to it being all about you," House comments.

"You know what, just... I'm done with this." This time at least he is the one that gets the satisfaction of storming out. Until he realizes House had never answered his question, so he has to turn around and reopen the door. "How many?"

"No more than usual." He might be being stupid recently, but Wilson knows not to ask more questions in response to an answer like that. At least not if he wants to sleep at night.

"Stop worrying, sit down, and watch," House says. "Cody Hancock is about to ride Okeechobee."

"Where do they come up with those names?" Wilson muses aloud, after he does as House asked – well, the sitting down and watching parts anyway. It's not like he has anything better to do if he leaves, plus leaving would mean admitting that they are fighting again, that even someone as messed up as House couldn't stand to be around him for an extended period of time. And that would mean admitting that he was the screwed up one. Not Sam. Not Bonnie. Not Julie. Not House. Him.

"What's wrong with the name Cody? Well other than it sounds a little bit like Cuddy?" jokes House. He would never sincerely apologize - Wilson had faced that fact long ago. This was as close as he got, though – pretending the bad stuff didn't happen and plowing forward.

Wilson does a lot of pretending in the relationship. Right now he's pretending to be as interested in the televised bull-riding as House is. Pretending he's not hurt by the accusations of being a mother hen, that he doesn't want to justify and explain everything away. He wants to say 'thank you' for answering his question and for letting the discussion drop, but that would be bringing it up again and extending the argument.

Instead he smiles and says, "I'm getting a little hungry. Do you want pizza or chinese?"


End file.
